CHALLENGE 


-CHALLENGE 

By  LOUIS  UNTERMEYER 


NEW  YORK 

THE  CENTURY  CO. 

1914 


Copyright,  1914,  by 

THE  CENTURY  Co. 


Published,  April,   1914 


CONTENTS 

I.  SUMMONS  pAGE 

SUMMONS      3 

PRAYER  7 

To  ARMS 9 

ON  THE  BIRTH  OF  A  CHILD 10 

How  MUCH  OF  GODHOOD 11 

THE  GREAT  CAROUSAL 12 

THANKS 17 

GOD'S  YOUTH 18 

IN  THE  BERKSHIRE  HILLS 23 

VOICES 24 

REVELATION 25 

AFFIRMATION 30 

DOWNHILL  ON  A  BICYCLE 31 

MIDNIGHT — BY  THE  OPEN  WINDOW     .      .  33 

THE  WINE  OF  NIGHT 34 

II.  INTERLUDES 

INVOCATION 37 

"FEUERZAUBER" 40 

SUNDAY  NIGHT 42 

AT  KENNEBUNKPORT 44 

IN  A  STRANGE  CITY 47 

FOLK-SONG  .  48 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

IN  THE  STREETS .50 

ENVY 52 

A  BIRTHDAY 54 

LEAVING  THE  HARBOR 60 

THE  SHELL  TO  THE  PEARL     ....  61 

THE  YOUNG  MYSTIC 63 

HEALED 64 

THE  STIRRUP-CUP 69 

SPRING  ON  BROADWAY 70 

IN  A  CAB 76 

SUMMER  NIGHT — BROADWAY     ....  79 

HAUNTED 80 

ISADORA  DUNCAN  DANCING     ....  83 

SONGS  AND  THE  POET 88 

THE  HERETIC 

I.  BLASPHEMY 89 

II.  IRONY 92 

III.  MOCKERY          93 

IV.  HUMILITY          94 

FIFTH  AVENUE — SPRING  AFTERNOON     .  96 

TRIBUTE 99 

III.  SONGS  OF  PROTEST 

CHALLENGE 103 

CALIBAN  IN  THE  COAL-MINES  .      .      .      .104 

ANY  CITY 105 

LANDSCAPES 107 

Two  FUNERALS  ...  Ill 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

SUNDAY 113 

STRIKERS 118 

IN  THE  SUBWAY 119 

BATTLE-CRIES 121 

A  VOICE  FROM  THE  SWEAT-SHOPS  .      .      .124 

SOLDIERS 128 

PEACE 131 

THE  DYING  DECADENT 133 

FUNERAL   HYMN 142 

PROTESTS  143 


For  the  privilege  of  reprinting  many  of  trie  poems 
included  in  this  volume,  the  author  thanks  the  editors 
of  The  Century,  Harper's,  The  Forum,  The  Masses, 
The  Smart  Set,  The  Independent,  The  American, 
The  Delineator,  The  New  Age,  The  Poetry  Journal 
and  other  magazines. 


SUMMONS 


To  Walter  Lippmann 


SUMMONS 

THE    eager    night    and    the  impetuous 
winds, 

The  hints  and  whispers  of  a  thousand    lures, 
And  all  the  swift  persuasion  of  the  Spring 
Surged  from  the  stars  and  stones,  and  swept 

me  on  ... 

The  smell  of  honeysuckles,  keen  and  clear, 
Startled  and  shook  me,  with  the  sudden  thrill 
Of  some  well-known  but  half-forgotten  voice. 
A  slender  stream  became  a  naked  sprite, 
Flashed  around  curious  bends,  and  winked  at 

me 

Beyond  the  turns,  alert  and  mischievous. 
A  saffron  moon,  dangling  among  the  trees, 
Seemed    like    a    toy    balloon    caught    in    the 

boughs, 
Flung   there   in    sport   by    some   too-mirthful 

breeze  .  .  . 

[3] 


•  •••;:  ;     ;  SUMMONS 

And  as  it  hung  there,  vivid  and  unreal, 
The  whole  world's  lethargy  was  brushed  away; 
The  night  kept  tugging  at  my  torpid  mood 
And  tore  it  into  shreds.     A  warm  air  blew 
My  wintry  slothfulness  beyond  the  stars; 
And  over  all  indifference  there  streamed 
A  myriad  urges  in  one  rushing  wave.  .    . 
Touched  with  the  lavish  miracles  of  earth, 
I  felt  the  brave  persistence  of  the  grass; 
The  far  desire  of  rivulets;  the  keen, 
Unconquerable  fervor  of  the  thrush; 
The  endless  labors  of  the  patient  worm; 
The  lichen's  strength;  the  prowess  of  the  ant; 
The  constancy  of  flowers;  the  blind  belief 
Of  ivy  climbing  slowly  toward  the  sun; 
The  eternal  struggles  and  eternal  deaths— 
^And  yet  the  groping  faith  of  every  root! 
Out  of  old  graves  arose  the  cry  of  life; 
Out  of  the  dying  came  the  deathless  call. 
And,  thrilling  with  a  new  sweet  restlessness, 
[4] 


SUMMONS 

The  thing  that  was  my  boyhood  woke  in  me — 
Dear,  foolish  fragments  made  me  strong  again ; 
Valiant  adventures,  dreams  of  those  to  come, 
And  all  the  vague,  heroic  hopes  of  youth, 
With  fresh  abandon,  like  a  fearless  laugh, 
Leaped  up  to  face  the  heaven's  unconcern.  .  . 

And  then — veil  upon  veil  was  torn  aside — 
Stars,  like  a  host  of  merry  girls  and  boys, 
Danced  gaily  'round  me,  plucking  at  my  hand ; 
The  night,  scorning  its  ancient  mystery, 
Leaned  down  and  pressed  new  courage  in  my 

heart ; 
The  hermit  thrush,  throbbing  with  more  than 

Song, 

Sang  with  a  happy  challenge  to  the  skies; 
Love,  and  the  faces  of  a  world  of  children, 
Swept   like   a   conquering   army   through   my 

blood — 

And  Beauty,  rising  out  of  all  its  forms, 
[5] 


SUMMONS 

Beauty,  the  passion  of  the  universe, 
Flamed  with  its  joy,  a  thing  too  great  for  tears, 
And,  like  a  wine,  poured  itself  out  for  me 
To  drink  of,  to  be  warmed  with,  and  to  go 
Refreshed  and  strengthened  to  the  ceaseless 

fight; 

To  meet  with  confidence  the  cynic  years; 
Battling  in  wars  that  never  can  be  won, 
Seeking  the  lost  cause  and  the  brave  defeat! 


16] 


PRAYER 

GOD,  though  this  life  is  but  a  wraith, 
Although  we  know  not  what  we  use, 
Although  we  grope  with  little  faith, 

Give  me  the  heart  to  fight — and  lose. 

x 

Ever  insurgent  let  me  be, 

Make  me  more  daring  than  devout; 
From  sleek  contentment  keep  me  free, 

And  fill  me  with  a  buoyant  doubt. 

Open  my  eyes  to  visions  girt 

With  beauty,  and  with  wonder  lit — 

But  let  me  always  see  the  dirt, 

And  all  that  spawn  and  die  in  it. 

Open  my  ears  to  music;  let 

Me    thrill    with    Spring's    first    flutes    and 
drums — 

[7] 


PRAYER 

But  never  let  me  dare  forget 
The  bitter  ballads  of  the  slums. 

From  compromise  and  things  half-done, 
Keep  me,  with   stern  and  stubborn  pride; 

And  when,  at  last,  the  fight  is  won 
God,  keep  me  still  unsatisfied. 


[8] 


W 


TO  ARMS! 
HO  can  be  dull  or  wrapped  in  uncon 


cern 

Knowing  a  world  so  clamorous  and  keen; 
A  world  of  ardent  conflict,  honest  spleen, 
And  healthy,  hot  desires  too  swift  to  turn; 
Vivid  and  vulgar — with  no  heart  to  learn  .   .   . 
See  how  that  drudge,  a  thing  unkempt,  un 
clean, 

Laughs  with  the  royal  laughter  of  a  queen. 
Even  in  her  the  eager  fires  burn. 

Who  can  be  listless  in  these  stirring  hours 
When,  with  athletic  courage,  we  engage 

To  storm,  with  fierce  abandon,  sterner  powers 
And  meet  indifference  with  a  joyful  rage; 

Thrilled  with  a  purpose  and  the  dream  that 
towers 

Out  of  this  arrogant  and  blundering  age. 
[9] 


ON  THE  BIRTH  OF  A  CHILD 

(Jerome  Epstein— August  8,  1912) 

Ly — to  the  battle-ground  of  Life, 
Child,  you  have  come,  like  a  conquering 
shout, 

Out  of  a  struggle — into  strife; 
Out  of  a  darkness — into  doubt. 

Girt  with  the  fragile  armor  of  Youth, 
Child,  you  must  ride  into  endless  wars, 

With  the  sword  of  protest,  the  buckler  of  truth, 
And  a  banner  of  love  to  sweep  the  stars. 

About  you  the  world's  despair  will  surge; 

Into  defeat  you  must  plunge  and  grope — 
Be  to  the  faltering  an  urge; 

Be  to  the  hopeless  years  a  hope! 

Be  to  the  darkened  world  a  flame; 

Be  to  its  unconcern  a  blow — 
For  out  of  its  pain  and  tumult  you  came, 

And  into  its  tumult  and  pain  you  go. 
[10] 


HOW  MUCH  OF  GODHOOD 

HOW  much  of  Godhood  did  it  take— 
What  purging  epochs  had  to  pass, 
Ere  I  was  fit  for  leaf  and  lake 

And  worthy  of  the  patient  grass? 

What  mighty  travails  must  have  been, 
What  ages  must  have  moulded  me, 

Ere  I  was  raised  and  made  akin 
To  dawn,  the  daisy  and  the  sea. 

In  what  great  struggles  was  I  felled, 
In  what  old  lives  I  labored  long, 

Ere  I  was  given  a  world  that  held 
A  meadow,  butterflies  and  Song? 

But  oh,  what  cleansings  and  what  fears, 

What  countless  raisings  from  the  dead, 
Ere  I  could  see  Her,  touched  with  tears, 

Pillow  the  little  weary  head. 
[11] 


THE  GREAT  CAROUSAL 

OH,  do  not  think  me  dead  when  I 
Beneath  a  bit  of  earth  shall  lie; 
Think  not  that  aught  can  ever  kill 
My  arrogant  and  stubborn  will. 
My  buoyant  strength,  my  eager  soul, 
My  stern  desire  shall  keep  me  whole 
And  lift  me  from  the  drowsy  deep  .   .    . 
I  shall  not  even  yield  to  Sleep, 
For  Death  can  never  take  from  me 
My  warm,  insatiate  energy; 
He  shall  not  dare  to  touch  one  part 
Of  the  gay  challenge  of  my  heart. 
And  I  shall  laugh  at  him,  and  lie 
Happy  beneath  a  laughing  sky; 
For  I  have  fought  too  joyously 
To  let  the  conqueror  conquer  me — 
I  know  that,   after  strengthening  strife, 
Death  cannot  quench  my  love  of  life; 

r  121 


THE   GREAT  CAROUSAL 

Rob  me  of  my  dear  self,  my  ears 

Of  music  or  my  eyes  of  tears  .    .    . 

No,  Death  shall  come  in  friendlier  guise; 

The  cloths  of  darkness  from  my  eyes 

He  shall  roll  back,  and  lo,  the  sea 

Of  Silence  shall  not  cover  me. 

He  shall  make  soft  my  final  bed, 

Stand,  like  a  servant,  at  my  head; 

And,  thrilled  with  all  that  Death  may  give, 

I  shall  lie  down  to  rest — and  live  . 


And  I  shall  know  within  the  earth 
A  softer  but  a  deeper  mirth. 
The  wind  shall  never  troll  a  song 
But  I  shall  hear  it  borne  along, 
And  echoed  long  before  he  passes 
By  all  the  little  unborn  grasses. 
I  shall  be  clasped  by  roots  and  rains, 

Feeding  and  fed  by  living  grains; 
[13] 


THE   GREAT  CAROUSAL 

There  shall  not  be  a  single  flower 
Above  my  head  but  bears  my  power, 
And  every  butterfly  or  bee 
That  tastes  the  flower  shall  drink  of  me. 
Ah,  we  shall  share  a  lip  to  lip 
Carousal  and  companionship! 


The  storm,  like  some  great  blustering  lout, 
Shall  play  his  games  with  me  and  shout 
His  joy  to  all  the  country-side. 
Autumn,  sun-tanned  and  April-eyed, 
Shall  scamper  by  and  send  his  hosts 
Of  leaves,  like  brown  and  merry  ghosts, 
To  frolic  over  me;  and  stones 
Shall  feel  the  dancing  in  their  bones. 
And  red-cheeked  Winter  too  shall  be 
A  jovial  bed-fellow  for  me, 
Setting  the  startled  hours  ringing 

With  boisterous  tales  and  lusty  singing. 
[14] 


THE   GREAT  CAROUSAL 

And,  like  a  mother  that  has  smiled 
For  years  on  every  tired  child, 
Summer  shall  hold  me  in  her  lap  .    . 
And  when  the  root  stirs  and  the  sap 
Climbs  anxiously  beyond  the  boughs, 
And  all  the  friendly  worms  carouse, 
Then,  oh,  how  proudly,  we  shall  sing 
Bravuras  for  the  feet  of  Spring! 


And  I  shall  lie  forever  there 
Like  some  great  king,  and  watch  the  fair 
Young  Spring  dance  on  for  me,  and  know 
That  love  and  rosy  valleys  glow 
Where'er  her  blithe  feet  touch  the  earth. 
And  headlong  joy  and  reckless  mirth 
Seeing  her  footsteps  shall  pursue. 
Oh,  I  shall  watch  her  smile  and  strew 
Laughter  and  life  with  either  hand; 

And  every  quiver  of  the  land, 
[15] 


THE   GREAT  CAROUSAL 

Shall  pierce  me,  while  a  joyful  wave 
Beats  in  upon  my  radiant  grave. 
Aye,  like  a  king  in  deathless  state 
I  shall  be  throned,  and  contemplate 
The  dying  of  the  years,  the  vast 
Vague  panorama  of   the  past, 
The  march  of  centuries,  the  surge 
Of  ages.  .  .  .but  the  deathless  urge 
Shall  stir  me  always,  and  my  will 
Shall  laugh  to  keep  me  living  still; 
Thrilling  with  every  call  and  cry — 
Too  much  in  love  with  life  to  die. 
Content  to  touch  the  earth,  to  hear 
The  whisper  of  each  waiting  year, 
To  help  the  stars  go  proudly  by, 
To  speed  the  timid  grass;  and  lie, 
Sharing,  with  every  movement's  breath, 
The  rich  eternity  of  Death. 


[16] 


THANKS 

TANK  God  for  this  bright  frailty  of 
Life, 
The    lyric    briefness    of    its    reckless 

Spring; 

Thank  God  for  all  the  swift  adventuring, 
The  bold  uncertainty,  the  rousing  strife. 

Thank  God  the  world  is  set  to  such  a  tune, 
That   life   is   such   a   proud   and   crashing 

wave; 
That   none,    but    lifeless    things,    shall    be 

Time's  slave, 
Like  the  long-dead  but  never  tiring  moon; 

That  godlike  passion  strangely  leaps  and  runs; 
That  youth  cannot  grow  old,   nor  beauty 

stale; 
That  even  Death  is  fragile  and  must  fail 

Before  the  wind  of  joy  that  speeds  the  suns. 
M7] 


GOD'S  YOUTH 

I  OFTEN  wish  that  I  had  been  alive 
Ere  God  grew  old,  before  His  eyes  were 

tired 

Of  the  eternal  circlings  of  the  sun; 
Of  the  perpetual  Springs;  the  weary  years 
Forever  marching  on  an  unknown  quest; 
The  yawning  seasons  pacing  to  and  fro, 
Like  stolid  sentinels  to  guard  the  earth. 
I  wish  that  I  had  been  alive  when  He 
Was  still  delighted  with  each  casual  thing 
His  mind  could  fashion,  when  His  soul  first 

thrilled 

With  childlike  pleasure  at  the  blooming  sun; 
When  the  first  dawn  met  His  enraptured  eyes, 
And  the  first  prayers  of  men  stirred  in  His 

heart. 
With  what  a  glow  of  pride  He  heard  the  stars 

Rush  by  Him  singing  as  they  bravely  leaped 

[18] 


GOD'S  YOUTH 

Into  the  unexplored  and  endless  skies, 
Bearing  His  beauty,  like  a  battle-cry. 
Or  watched  the  light,  obedient  to  His  will, 
Spring  out  of  nothingness  to  answer  Him, 
Hurling  strange  suns  and  planets  in  its  joy 
Of  fiery  freedom  from  the  lifeless  dark. 
But  more  than  all  the  splendid  heavens  He 

made, 

The  elements  new-tamed,  the  harnessed  worlds ; 
In  spite  of  these,  it  must  have  pleased  Him 

most 

To  feel  Himself  branch  out,  let  go,  dare  all, 
Give  utterance  to  His  vaguely-formed  desires, 
And  loose  a  flood  of  fancies,  wild  and  frank. 

Oh  those  were  noble  times ;  those  gay  attempts, 
Those  vast  and  droll  experiments  that  were 

made 
When    God    was    young    and    blithe    and 

whimsical. 

[19] 


GOD'S  YOUTH 

When,  from  the  infinite  humor  of  His  heart, 
He  made  the  elk  with  such  extravagant  horns, 
The  grotesque  monkey-folk,  the  angel-fish, 
That  make  the  ocean's  depths  a  visual  heaven ; 
The  animals  like  plants,  the  plants  like  beasts ; 
The  loud,  inane  hyena,  and  the  great 
Impossible  giraffe,  whose  silly  head 
Threatens  the  stars,  his  feet  embracing  earth. 
The  paradox  of  the  peacock,  whose  bright 

form 

Is  like  a  brilliant  trumpet,  and  his  voice 
A  strident  squawk,  a  cackle  and  a  joke. 
The  ostrich,  like  a  snake  tied  to  a  bird, 
All  out  of  sense  and  drawing,  wilder  far 
Than  all  the  mad,  fantastic  thoughts  of  men. 
The  hump-backed  camel,  like  a  lump  of  clay, 
Thumbed  at  for  hours,  and  then  thrown  aside. 
The  elephant,  with  splendid,  useless  tooth, 
And  nose  and  arm  and  fingers  all  in  one. 

The  hippopotamus,  absurd  and  bland— 
[201 


GOD'S  YOUTH 

Oh,  how  God  must  have  laughed  when  first 

He  saw 
These  great  jests  breathe  and  love  and  walk 

about ; 
And    how    the    heavens    must    have    echoed 

him.  .  . 

For  greater  than  His  beauty  or  His  wrath 
Was  God's  vast  mirth  before  His  back  was 

bent 

With  Time  and  all  the  troubling  universe, 
Ere   He   grew   dull   and   weary  with   creat 
ing.  .  . 

Oh,  to  have  been  alive  and  heard  that  laugh 
Thrilling  the  stars,  convulsing  all  the  earth, 
While  meteors  flashed  from  out  His  sparkling 

eyes, 

And  even  the  eternal,  placid  Night 
Forgot  to  lift  reproving  fingers,  smiled 

And  joined,  indulgent,  in  the  merriment.  .  . 
[21] 


GOD'S  YOUTH 


And,  how  they  sang,  and  how  the  hours  flew 
When    God    was    young    and    blithe    and 
whimsical. 


[22] 


IN  THE  BERKSHIRE  HILLS 

HOW  can  the  village  dead  remain   so 
still... 

Surely  they  tingle  with  the  winey  air, 
When  the  skies  riot  and  the  sunsets  flare 
And  all  the  world  becomes  a  flaming  hill. 
Surely  the  driest  dust  must  turn  and  thrill 
When   these   wild   breezes   sweep   out   all 

despair — 
And  lakes   are  bluest,   pools   are   starriest 

where 
The  streaming  heavens  overflow  and  spill. 

Oh,  were  it  I  that  lay  like  any  clod, 

Though  buried  under  rock  and  gnarled  tree, 
I  would  arise,  and,  through  the  clinging  sod, 
Go  struggling  upward,  passionate  and  proud; 
Laugh,    with    the    winds    and    mountains 

watching  me, 

And    dance    in    triumph    on    my    crumbling 
shroud. 

[23] 


VOICES 

ALL     day     with     anxious     heart     and 
wondering  ear 

I  listened  to  the  city ;  heard  the  ground 
Echo  with  human  thunder,  and  the  sound 
Go  reeling  down  the  streets  and  disappear. 
The  headlong  hours,  in  their  wild  career, 
Shouted    and    sang    until    the    world    was 

drowned 

With    babel-voices,    each    one    more    pro 
found.  .  . 
All  day  it  surged  —  but  nothing  could  I  hear. 

That  night  the  country  never  seemed  so  still; 

The  trees  and  grasses  spoke  without  a  word 

To   stars  that  brushed   them  with   their 

silver  wings. 

Together  with  the  moon  I  climbed  the  hill, 
And,  in  the  very  heart  of  Silence,  heard 
The  speech  and  music  of  immortal  things. 
[241 


REVELATION 

QEPTEMBER  — and  an  afternoon 
^J         Heavy    with    languid    thoughts    and 

long; 

The  air  breathes  faintly,  half  in  swoon, 
-^JLike    silence  trembling  after  Song. 
The  mighty  calmness  seems  to  draw 

My  spirit  through  a  painless  birth — 
And  now,  with  eyes  that  never  saw, 

I  see  the  poetry  of  earth. 

That   group    of   old  maple-trees  brooding  in 

peace  by  the  river, 
Happy  with  sunlight,  and  an  oriole  singing 

among  them — 
Lo,  what  a  marvel    (what  rapture  for  Him 

who  first  sung  them) 
That  here,  in  less  space  than  a  carpenter's 

workshop,  the  Giver 
[25] 


REVELATION 

Has  fashioned  a  casual  wonder 

Greater  than  dawn  or  the  thunder. 
Here  in  a  dozen  of  feet  He  has  blended 

Music  and  motion  and  color  and  form, 
Each  in  itself  a   creation  so  splendid 

That,   were  it  the   world's   one  beauty, 

'twould  warm 
And  kindle  all  Life  till  it  ended. 


Birds  and  old  maple-trees— 
Only  to  think  of  these, 
Only  to  dream  of  them  here  for  an  hour 
Is  to  know  all  the  secrets  of  earth. 
For  here  is  the  world  that  God  sang  into 
flower 

And  bloom  at  its  birth — 
Here  is  its  magical  uplift  and  power; 

Its  music  and  mirth. 
[26] 


REVELATION 

Here  the  sun   scarcely  wakes; 
Like  a  monarch  it  takes 

Rest  on  the  lordliest  branches  alone. 
Till  a  glad  tremor  shakes 

Every  leaf  that  is  blown- 
While  a  zephyr  advancing, 

Breathes  gently  and  breaks 
The  light  into  dancing 
Figures,  with  glancing 

Rhythms  and  rhymes  of  their  own . 

Yes,  here  in  this  spot,  in  this  edge  of  an  acre 
All    of   the   world    is,    the   heart   and   the 

whole  of  it- 
Here  is  a  universe;  daily  the  Maker 

Shows  here  the  sweet  and  extravagant  soul 

of  it. 
For  the  arms  of  the  maple  have  held  in  their 

cover 

The  earth  and  the  sky  and  the  stars,  every 
one — 

[27] 


REVELATION 


Not  the  tenderest  twig  but  has  known,   like 
a  lover 

The  silence,  the  night  and  the  sun. 


Not   the   airiest  bird   but  has   sung,   all   un 
knowing, 
The    joy    of    each     minstrel    that    carols 

unheard. 
And  Summer,   green  fields  and   a   world  of 

things  growing, 
Are  brought  to  this  spot  by  the  breath  of 

a  bird. 
And  there's  never  a  wind  but  brings  road-sides 

and  ranches, 

Forests  and  tales  of  the  far-off  and  free — 
And  the  rush  of  the  breeze  as  it  sings  in  the 
branches 

Echoes  and  answers  the  rush  of  the  sea ... 

[28] 


REVELATION 

A  group  of  old  maple-trees  brooding  in  peace 

by  the  river — 
That  —  and     a     bird,     nothing     else .  .  .  But 

above  and  around  it, 
The  spell  of  the  infinite  beauty,  half-hidden 

forever, 
Lies,  like  a  secret  of  God's  —  and  here  I 

have  found  it. 
The  hymn  of  the  cosmic  —  the  anthem  that 

has  for  its  choir 
Stars,   rivers  and  flowers  —  still   rises  and 

sweeps  me  along; 
While  the  cry  of  the  oriole  melts  in  a  sunset 

of  fire 
And   the   heavens,    a    jubilant   chorus,   are 

flushed  with  the  fires  of  Song ! 


[29] 


AFFIRMATION 

AS  long  as  vigorous  discontent 
Goads  us  from  torpid  ease,  or  worse, 

I  thank  the  power  that  sent 
Struggle,  the  savior  of  the  universe. 

As  long  as  things  are  torn  and  hurled 
In  this  implacable  unrest, 

I  shall  embrace  the  world 
With  joyful  fierceness  and  undying  zest. 

I   shall  grow  strong  with  every  hurt; 
The   scorn,   the   anger  will   achieve 

Only  a  glad,  alert 
Desire  to  question  boldly  —  and  believe. 

My  eager  faith  shall  keep  me  set 
Against  despair  or  careless  hate, 
Knowing  this  smoke  and  sweat 

Is  forging  something  violent  —  and  great! 
[30] 


DOWN-HILL  ON  A  BICYCLE 

THE  rolling  earth  stops 
As  I  climb  to  the  summit, 
Then  like  a  plummet 
It  suddenly  drops.  .  . 

Down,  down  I  go — 

Past  rippling  acres; 

Hillsides  like  breakers 
Over  me  flow. 

Wildly  alive 

I  hail  the  green  shimmer, 

Fresh  as  a  swimmer 
After  the  dive. 

Like  banners  unfurled 

The  skies  dip  and  flourish — 
The  keen  breezes  nourish, 

While  the  bright  world 
[31] 


DOWN-HILL   ON   A   BICYCLE 

Is  a  ribbon  unrolled 

With  a  border  of  grasses; 

And  tansies  are  masses 
And  splotches  of  gold. 

Still  I  whirl  on — 
Startled,  a  sparrow 
Darts  from  the  yarrow, 

Flash  —  and  is  gone .  .  . 

Faster  the  gleams 
Die  as  they  dazzle — 
And  roadsides  of  basil 

Turn  to  pink  streams. 

Sharp  as  a  knife 

Is  each  perfume  and  color. 

To  feel  nothing  duller — 
God,  that  were  Life! 


[32] 


MIDNIGHT-BY  THE  OPEN  WINDOW 

HOW   rapt  the   sleeping  stillness   of   the 
night— 
Incomparably   close   and   vast.  .  .One 

might 

Hear  the  tense  silence  in  the  little  street 
Reaching    to    heaven,    where    it    swells    and 

breaks 

Into  moon-music  and  star-song  that  makes 
My  senses  bend  and  sway,  as  waving  wheat 
Trembles  before  the  wind's  majestic  feet; 
Trembles  with  happy  fear  and  numb  delight. 

How    sharp    the   silence .  .  .  like    a    sword    to 

smite 

Brittle  security  and  iron  aches; 
A  soundless  and  imperative  blast  that  wakes 
Undreamed  of  powers,   terrible  and  sweet .  .  . 
While    God    comes    down,     roused    to    the 

jubilant  fight; 

Roused  from  the  sleepy  comfort  of  His  seat. 
[33] 


THE  WINE  OF  NIGHT 

COME,  drink  the  mystic  wine  of  Night, 
Brimming  with  silence  and  the  stars, 
While  earth,  bathed  in  this  holy  light, 

Is  seen  without  its  scars. 
Drink  in  the  daring  and  the  dews, 

The  calm  winds  and  the  restless  gleam — 
This  is  the  draught  that  Beauty  brews; 
Drink  —  it  is  the  Dream .  .  . 


Drink,  oh  my  soul,  and  do  not  yield — 
These  solitudes,  this  wild-rose  air, 

Shall  strengthen  thee,  shall  be  thy  shield, 
Against  a  world's  despair. 

Oh,  quaff  this  stirrup-cup  of  stars, 

Trembling  with  hope  and  high  desire — 

Then  back  into  the  hopeless  wars 

With  faith  and  fire! 

[341 


INTERLUDES 


To  My  Wife 


L 


INVOCATION 

1ST  EN,  my  lute,  I  would  turn  from  your 
militant  measures. 

Well  have  you  answered  the  touch  of 
intransigent  fingers; 

Wildly    your    strings    have   vibrated — 
but  have  you  forgotten 
How  to  mal^e  love-songs? 


Lute,  you  are  hot  to*  the  hand;  you  are  tense 

and  exultant. 
Cease  crying  out  —  let  me  rest  from  the  din 

and  the  battle. 
Life  is  not  only  a  summoning  shout  and  a 

struggle, 

A  blow  and  a  silence. 
[37] 


INVOCATION 

Is    there   not   vigorous    peace    after   vigorous 

onslaught? 
Beauty's  a  challenge  as  fierce  and  as  stirring  as 

conflict.  .  . 
Look  —  how  she  runs  through  the  tremulous 

twilight   to  meet  me — 
Do  you  remember? 


See  —  it  is  night  and  she  turns  to  my  arms 

of  a  sudden; 
Soft  as  a  mother  and  wild  with  the  fires  of 

April- 
Bashful  and  bold,  with  her  passionate  hair  all 

about  her; 

Lovely  and  lavish. 
[38] 


INVOCATION 

Lute,  it  was  she  who  awo^e  and  impelled  us 

to  singing — 
Ah,   those  first   lyrics,   impulsive   and   feeble 

and  earnest — 
She   Tvho  aroused  us   and  soothed  us  —  our 

passion,  our  pilloiv — 

Dare  you  forget  her! 


Only  remember  'tis  she  keeps  me  rested  and 

restless; 
Only  remember  my  heart,  like  a  kite  in  strong 

breezes, 
Leaps  at  the  thought  of  her  voice  and  her  s/on>, 

searching  pisses, 

Stabbing  and  healing. 
[39] 


"  FEUERZAUBER  " 

I     NEVER   knew   the   earth   had   so  much 
gold— 

The  fields  run  over  with  it,  and  this  hill 
Hoary  and  old, 

Is  young  with  buoyant  blooms  that  flame 
and  thrill. 

Such    golden    fires,    such   yellows  —  lo,    how 

good 
This  spendthrift  world,  and  what  a  lavish 

God- 
This  fringe  of  wood, 

Blazing   with   buttercup   and  goldenrod. 

You  too,  beloved,  are  changed.     Again  I  see 
Your  face  grow  mystical,  as  on  that  night 
You  turned  to  me, 

And  all  the  trembling  world  —  and  you  — 
were  white. 

[40] 


"FEUERZAUBER" 

Aye,  you  are  touched;  your  singing  lips  grow 
dumb; 

The  fields  absorb  you,  color  you  entire.  . . 
And  you  become 

A  goddess  standing  in  a  world  of  fire! 


[41] 


SUNDAY  NIGHT 

TOSSING    throughout    this    tense     and 
nervous  night 
Sleepless  I  drowse.     My  soul,  for  lack 

of  rest, 
Sinks  like  a  bird,  that  after  flight  on  flight 

Misses  the  shelter  of  its  well-loved  nest. 
So  would  I  gain  your  side  and  seek,  my  love, 
The  comfortable  heaven  of  your  breast. 


Once  more  to  lie  beside  the  window  seat, 
And  see,  far  off,  the  ribboned  river-lights, 

The  yellow  gas-lamps  in  the  dusky  street — 
And  pressing  close,  from  proud  and  alien 
heights, 

The  noble  skies  and  the  inviolate  stars 

Surround    and    bless    us    these    autumnal 

nights. 

[42] 


SUNDAY  NIGHT 

No  words  —  the  silence  and  your  breathless 

name 
Are  all  that's  in  the  world;  and  faint  and 

fair 

The  distant  church-bells  solemnly  proclaim 
To     all     the    meek     and     sabbath-scented 

air.  .  . 

I  take  you  in  my  arms .  .  .  and  I   awake 
Groping,  with  restless  anger,  for  a  prayer. 


[43] 


AT  KENNEBUNKPORT 

WE  sat  together  at  the  ocean's  edge, 
The  night  was  mystical  and  warm. 
From  every  rambling  roadside  hedge 
Wild  roses  followed  us  with  a  swarm 
Of  scents;   the  pines  and  every  odorous  tree 
Triumphed  and   rose  above   the  languid  sea. 
The  stars  were  dim— 
The  world  was  hushed,   as  though  before  a 

shrine.  .  . 

We  sat  together  at  the  ocean's  rim, 
Your  hand  in  mine. 

Then  came  the  moon  — 

A  calm,  benignant  moon, 

Like  some  indulgent  mother  that  has  smiled 

On  every  wayward  child. 

The  breathing  stillness,  like  a  wordless  croon, 

Made  the  soft  heart  of  heaven  doubly  mild; 
[44] 


AT  KENNEBUNKPORT 

And    the   salt    air    mingled   with    the   air   of 
June . . . 

The   vast   and   intimate   Silence  —  and    your 
lips.  .  .  , 

Faintly  we  saw  the  lanterns  of  three  ships, 
Three    swaying    sparks    of    sudden   red    and 

green .  .  . 

We  spoke  no  word;  we  heard  unseen 
A  night-bird  wearily  flapping. 
And    nothing    murmured    in    that    world    of 

wonder — 
Only  the  hushing  waters'  gentle  lapping. 


A   distant  trembling,   as  of  ghostly  thunder; 
Then,  poignantly  and  plain, 
The  lonely  whistle  of  a  weary  train .  .  . 
And  once  again  the  Silence  —  and  your  lips. 
[45] 


AT  KENNEBUNKPORT 

Oh  let  me  never  cease  to  thank  you  for  that 

night ; 

That  night  that  eased  and  fortified  my  heart. 
When  radiant  peace,  dearer  than  all  delight, 
Bathed  every  old  and  feverish  smart, 
Wiped    out    all    memories    of    the    uncleanly 

fight... 

Cradled  in  that  great  beauty,  and  your  arms, 
The  cries  and  mad  alarms 
Were  lulled  and  all  the  bitter  banners  furled. 
The     tumult     vanished,     and     the     thought 

thereof.  .  . 
In  you  I  knew  the  sweet  contentment  of  the 

world, 
The  balm  of  silence  and  the  strength  of  love. 


[46] 


IN  A  STRANGE  CITY 

DUSK  —  and  a  hunger  for  your  face 
That  grows,  with  brooding  twilight, 

deeper, 

While  in  this  hushed  and  cheerless  place, 
The  world  lies,  like  a  careless  sleeper. 
Oh  for  a  brave,  red  wave  of  sound 

To  send  Life  flowing  somehow  through  me; 
Oh  for  the  blatant,  human  round 

To  end   these   hours  lone  and  gloomy. 

At  last  —  the  friendly  summer  night, 
And  children's  voices  calling  after. 

Long  avenues  sing  out  with  light; 

Murmurs  arise  and  bursts  of  laughter. 

I  hear  the  lisp  of  happy  feet — 
Life  goes  by  like  a  rushing  river — 

A  boy  comes  whistling  up  the  street.  .  . 

And  I  am  lonelier  than  ever. 
[47] 


FOLK-SONG 

BACK   she   came   through    the   trembling 
dusk; 

And  her  mother  spoke  and  said: 
"What  is  it  makes  you  late  to-day, 
And  why  do  you  smile  and  sing  as  gay 

As  though  you  just  were  wedX* 
"Oh  mother,  mp  hen  that  never  had  chicks 
Has  hatched  out  six/" 


Back  she  came  through  the  flaming  dusk; 

And  her  mother  spoke  and  said: 
"What  gives  your  eyes  that  dancing  light, 
What  makes  your  lips  so  strangely  bright, 

And  why  are  your  cheeks  so  red?" 
"Oh  mother,  the  berries  I  ate  in  the  lane 
Have  left  a  stain." 

[48] 


FOLK-SONG 

Back  she  came  through  the  faltering  dusk; 

And  her  mother  spoke  and  said: 
"You   are  weeping;    your   footstep  is  heavy 

with  care — 
What  makes  you  totter  and  cling  to  the  stair, 

And  why  do  you  hang  your  head?" 
"Oh   mother  —  oh  mother  —  you  never  can 

know — 
/  loved  him  so/" 


[49] 


IN  THE  STREETS 

BOY,  my  boy,  it  is  lonely  in  the  city, 
Days  that  have  no  pity  and  the  nights 

without  a  tear 
Follow  all   too   slowly   and  I   can  no  more 

dissemble ; 

I    am   frightened   and   I    tremble  —  and   I 
would  that  you  were  here. 
Oh  boy  —  God   keep  you. 


Boy,  my  boy,  I  had  sworn  to  weep  no  longer. 
Time    I    thought    was    stronger    than    the 

evenings  long  gone  by; 
The    ardent     looks,    the    eager    hands,    the 

whispers  hot  and  hurried— 
But  they  all  come  back  unburied  and  not 
one  of  them  will  die. 

Oh  boy  —  God  save  you. 

[50] 


IN   THE   STREETS 

Boy,  my  boy,  you  were  bold  with  youth  and 

power; 
Your  love  was  like  a  flower  that  you  wore 

upon  your  sleeve. 
And  wherever  you  may  go  there'll  be  a  girl 

with  eyes  that  glisten; 
A  girl  to  watch  and  listen,  and  a  girl  for 
you  to  leave. 

Oh  boy  — God  help  her! 


[51] 


ENVY 

"^HE  willow  and  the  river 
A  Ripple  with  silver  speech, 

And  one  refrain  forever 
They  murmur  each  to  each : 

"Brook  with  the  silver  gravel, 

Would  that  your  lot  were  mine; 
To  wander  free,  to  travel 

Where  greener  valleys  shine — 
Strange  ventures,  fresh  revealings, 

And,  at  the  end  —  the  sea! 
Brook,  with  your  turns  and  wheelings, 

How  rich  your  life  must  be." 

"Tree  with  the  golden  rustling, 

Would  that  I  were  so  blessed, 
To  cease  this  stumbling,  jostling, 

This  feverish  unrest. 
[52] 


ENVY 

I  join  the  ocean's  riot; 

You  stand  song-filled — and  free! 
Tree,  with  your  peace  and  quiet, 

How  rich  your  life  must  be." 

The  willow  and  the  river 
Ripple  "with  silver  speech, 

And  one  refrain  forever 
They  murmur  each  to  each. 


[53] 


A  BIRTHDAY 

AGAIN  I  come 
With  my  handful  of  Song — 
With  my  trumpery    gift   tricked    out 

and  made  showy  with  rhyme. 
It  is  Spring,  and  the  time 
When  your  thoughts  are  long; 
When   the  blossoming  world  in  its  confident 

prime 

Whispers  and  wakens  imperative  dreams; 
When  you  color  and  start 
With  the  airiest  schemes 
And  the  laughter  of  children  is  stirring  your 
heart.  .  . 

With  all  of  these  voices  that  rise  to  restore  you 

To  gladness  again, 

With  your  heart  full  of  things  that  sing  and 
adore  you, 

I  come  with  my  strain — 
[54] 


A  BIRTHDAY 

I  come  with  my  tinkling  that  patters  like  rain 

On  a  rickety  pane; 

With  a  jingle  of  words  and  old  tunes  which 
have  long 

Done  duty  in  song; 
Spreading  my  verse,  like  a  showman,  before 

you. . . 

And  you  turn  to  the  world,  as  you  turn  to  the 
bosom  that  bore  you. 


In  all  this  singing  at  your  heart, 
In  all  this  ringing  through  the  day, 
In  the  bravado  of  the  May 

I  have  no  part.  .  .  . 

For  I  am  not  one  with  the  conquering  year 

That  wakes  without  fear 

The  lyrical  souls  of  the  feathery  throng, 

That  flames  in  the  heavens  when  evenings  are 
long; 

[55] 


A  BIRTHDAY 


That  surges  with  power  and  urges  with  cheer 
The  boldness  of  love,  the  laugh  of  the  strong, 
And  the  confident  song.  .  . 


I  am  no  longer  the  masterful  lover 

Storming   my   way   to   the   shrine   of  your 

heart ; 

Reckless  with  youth  and  the  zest  to  discover 
All  that  the  world  sets  apart. 
I  am  no  longer 
Wiser  and  stronger; 

No  longer  I  shout  in  the  face  of  the  world; 
No  longer  my  challenge  is  sounded  and  hurled 
With  such  fury  that  even  the  heavens  must 

hear  it. 

No  longer  I  mount  on  a  passionate  flood — 
Something  has  changed  my  arrogant  spirit, 

Something  has  left  my  braggart  blood. 
[56] 


A  BIRTHDAY 

Something  has  left  me — something  has  entered 

in — 
Something  I   knew  not,  something  beyond 

my  desire. 
Deeper  and  gentler  I  hold  you;  all  that  has 

been 
Seems  like  a  spark  that  is  lost  in  a  forest 

of  fire. 
Minor  my  song  is,  for  still  the  old  memories 

burn — 
Only  in  you  and  your  thought  do  I  find  my 

release.  .  . 

I  have  done  with  the  blustering  airs,  and  I  turn 
From   the  clamorous  strife  to   the   greater 
heroics  of  peace. 

Take  me  again 
Out  of  the  cries  and  alarms 
All  of  the  tumult  is  vain.  . . 

Here  in  your  arms. 
[57] 


A  BIRTHDAY 

Hold  me  again — 
Oft  have  We  wandered  apart; 
Now  it  is  all  made  plain .  .  . 
Here  in  your  heart. 

Heal  me  again — 
Cleanse  me  with  tears  that  remove 
Pain  and  the  ruins  of  pain .  .  . 
Here  in  your  love. 

Minor  my  song  was — abashed  I  must  lower 

my  voice; 
Something  has  touched  me  with  nobler  and 

holier  fire; 
Something  that  thrills,  as  when  trumpets  and 

children  rejoice; 
Something  I   knew  not,   something  beyond 

my  desire.  .  . 
Minor    no    longer — the    sighing    and    droning 

depart ; 

In  a  chorus  of  triumph  the  jubilant  spirits 
increase — 

[58] 


A  BIRTHDAY 


Shelter  and  spur  me  forever  in  the  merciful 

strength  of  your  heart, 
You  who  have  soothed  me  with  passion  and 
roused  me  with  passionate  peace. 


[59] 


LEAVING  THE  HARBOR 

AT  last  the  great,  red  sun  sank  low, 
An  evil,  blood-shot  eye, 
And  cooling  airs  sprang  up  to  blow 
The  sea  that  challenged,  glow  for  glow, 
The  angry  face  of  the  sky. 

Still  burned  the  streets  we  had  left  behind, 

Where,  tortured  and  broken  down, 
The  millions  scarcely  hoped  to  find 
A  moment's  escape  from  the  maddening  grind 
In  the  terrible  furnace  of  town. 

And,  blotting  out  cities,  the  twilight  fell 

With  a  single  star  at  seven.  .  . 
The  sea  grew  wider  beneath  the  spell 
And  the  moon,  like  a  broken  silver  shell, 

Lay  on  the  shore  of  heaven. 
[60] 


THE  SHELL  TO  THE  PEARL 


G 


ROW  not  so  fast,  glow  not  so  warm; 

Thy  hidden  fires  burn  too  wild — 
Too  perfect  is  thy  rounded  form; 
Cling  close,  my  child. 

Be  yet  my  babe,  rest  quiet  when 

The  great  sea-urges  beat  and  call; 
Too  soon  wilt  thou  be  ripe  for  men, 

The  world  and  all. 

Thy  shining  skin,  thy  silken  sheath, 

These  will  undo  thee  all  too  soon; 
And  men  will  fight  for  thee  beneath 

Some  paler  moon .  .  . 

Aye,  thou  my  own,  my  undefiled, 

Shalt  make  the  lewd  world  dream  and  start, 
When  they  have  seized  and  torn  thee,  child, 

Out  of  my  heart. 
[61] 


THE  SHELL  TO  THE  PEARL 

With  velvets  shall  thy  bed  be  laid; 

A  royal  captive  thou  shalt  be— 
And  oh,  what  prices  will  be  paid 

To  ransom  thee. 

Thy  path  shall  be  a  track  of  gold, 

Of  lust,  of  death  and  countless  crimes; 
Bought  by  a  sensual  world — and  sold 

A  thousand  times .  . . 

And  each  shall  lose  thee  at  the  last, 

Hating,  yet  still  desiring  thee.  .  . 
While  I  lie,  where  I  have  been  cast, 
Back  in  the  sea. 

So  wait — and,  lest  the  world  transform 

Thy  soul  and  make  thee  wanton-wild, 
Crow  not  so  fast,  glow  not  so  warm, 

Cling  close,  my  child. 


[62 


THE  YOUNG  MYSTIC 

WE  sat  together  close  and  warm, 
My  little  tired  boy  and  I — 
Watching  across  the  evening  sky 
The  coming  of  the  storm. 

No  rumblings  rose,  no  thunders  crashed, 
The  west-wind  scarcely  sang  aloud; 
But  from  a  huge  and  solid  cloud 

The  summer  lightnings  flashed. 

And  then  he  whispered  "Father,  watch; 
I  think  God's  going  to  light  His  moon — " 
"And  when,  my  boy" .  .  .  "Oh,  very  soon — 

I  saw  Him  strike  a  match!" 


[63] 


HEALED 

THE  winds  like  a  pack  of  hounds 
Snap  at  my  dragging  heels 
With    sudden    leapings    and    playful 

bounds 

They  urge  me  out  to  the  greener  grounds 
Where  the  butterfly  sinks  and  the  swallow 

reels 
Giddy    with    Spring,    with    its    smells    and 

sounds — 
And  I  go ... 

For  of  late   I  have  fretted  and  sulked,  and 

clung  to  my  books  and  the  house; 
Lethargic   with  winter  fancies   and  dulled 

with  a  torpid  mood — 
But  now  I  am  called  by  the  grasses ;  the  rumor 

of  blossoming  boughs; 
The  hints  of  a  thousand  singers   and  the 
ancient  thrill  of  the  wood. 
[64] 


HEALED 

For  the  streets  run  over  with  sunlight  and  spill 
A  glory  on  bricks  and  the  dustiest  sill; 
And  Life,   like  a   great  drum,  pulses  and 

pounds — 

I  follow  the  world  and  I  follow  my  will, 
And  I  go  to  see  what  the  park  reveals 
When    the    winds,    like   a    pack    of   buoyant 

hounds. 
Snap  at  my  dragging  heels.  .  . 

Once  with   the  green   again 

How  I  am  changed  - 
Lo,   I  have  seen  again 

Friends  long  estranged. 
Once  more  the  lyrical 

Rose-bush  and  river; 
Once  more  the  miracle, 

Greater  than  ever! 
[65] 


HEALED 

Where  is  there  dulness  now — 

Rich  with  new  urges 
Life  in  its  fullness  now 

Surges  and  purges 
All  that  is  brash  in  me — 

Sunlight  and  Song 
These  things  will  fashion  me 

Splendid  and  strong. 

Splendid  and  strong  I  shall  grow  once  again; 
Joyful  and  clean  as  the  mind  of  a  child, 
As  tears  after  pain, 

Or  hearts  reconciled, 
As  woods  washed  with  rain, 

As  love  in  the  wild, 

Or  that  bird  to  whom  all  things  but  singing 
is  vain. 

"Bird,  there  were  songs  in  your  heart  just  as 
rapturous 

As  these  that  you  bring  — 
[66] 


HEALED 

Why  when  we  longed  for  your  magic  to  cap 
ture  us 

Did  you  not  sing? 
Now  with  the  world  making  music  we  heed 

you  not. 

Coward,  for  all  your  fine  challenge,  we  need 
you  not— 

We  too  are  brave  with  the  Spring!" 


So  I  sang — but  a  something  was  missing;  the 

song  and  the  sunlight  were  stale, 
Though  a  squirrel  had  sat  on  my  shoulder 

and  sparrows  had  fed  from  my  hand; 
Though  I  heard  the  white  laughter  of  ripples 

and  the  breezes'  faint  answering  hail, 
And  somewhere  a  bird's  voice  I  knew  not 

— yet  hearing  could  half  understand .  .  . 

[67] 


HEALED 

And  lo,  at  my  doorstep  I  saw  it;  it  shouted  to 

me  as  I  came — 
It  laughed  in  its  simple  revealment,  a  miracle 

common  and  wild; 
Plainly  I  heard  and  beheld  it,   bright  as  a 

forest  of  flame — 

And  its  face  was  the  face  of  a  mother,  and 
its  voice  was  the  voice  of  a  child. 


[68] 


THE  STIRRUP-CUP 

YOUR  eyes — and  a  thousand  stars 
Leap  from  the  night  to  aid  me; 
I  scale  the  impossible  bars, 
I  laugh  at  a  world  that  dismayed  me. 

Your  voice — and  the  thundering  skies 
Tremble  and   cease  to   appall  me — 

Coward  no  longer,  I  rise 

Spurred   for  what  battles  may  call  me. 

Your  arms — and  my  purpose  grows  strong; 

Your    lips — and    high    passions    complete 

me.  .  . 
For  your  love,  it  is  armor  and  Song — 

And  where  is  the  thing  to  defeat  me ! 


[69] 


SPRING  ON  BROADWAY 

MAKE  way  for  Spring- 
Spring  that's  a  stranger  in  the  city, 
Spring  that's  a  truant  in  the  town. 
Make  way  for  Spring,  for  she  has  no  pity 
And  she  will  tear  your  barriers  down — 
Make  way  for  Spring! 

See  from  her  hidden  valleys, 

With  mirth  that  never  palls, 
She  comes  with  songs  and  sallies, 

With  bells  and  magic  calls, 
And  dances  down  your  alleys, 

And  whispers  through  your  walls. 

You  who  never  once  have  missed  her 
In  your  town  of  pomp  and  pride 
Now  in  vain  you  will  resist  her — 

You  will  feel  her  at  your  side; 
[70] 


SPRING  ON   BROADWAY 

Even  in  the  smallest  street, 
Even  in  the  densest  throng, 
She  will  follow  at  your  feet, 
She  will  walk  with  you  along. 
She  will  stop  you  as  you  start 
Here  and  there,  and  growing  bolder, 
She  will  touch   you   on  the  shoulder, 
She  will  clutch  you  at  the  heart .  .  . 

Merchant,  you  who  drink  your  mead 

From  a  golden  cup, 
Shut  your  ears,  and  do  not  heed; 

Look  not  up. 
Beware — for  she  is  light  as  air, 

And  her  charm  will  work  confusion; 
Spring  is  but  an  old  delusion 

And  a  snare.  .  .  . 
Merchant,  you  who  drink  your  mead 

While  the  thirsty  die, 
Shut  your  eyes,  and  do  not  heed — 
Pass  her  by. 
[71] 


SPRING   ON   BROADWAY 

Maiden  with  the  nun-like  eyes 

Do  not  pause  to  greet  her; 

Spring  is  far  too  wild  and  wise — 
Do  not  meet  her. 

Do  not  listen  while  she  tells 

Her  persuasive  lures  and  spells; 

Do  not  learn  her  secrets,  lest 

She  should  plant  them  in  your  breast; 

Whisper  things  to  shame  and  shock  you, 

Make  your  heart  beat  fast — and  mock  you; 

Send  you  dreams  that  rob  your  rest.  .  . 

Maiden  with  the  nun-like  eyes 

Spring  is  far  too  wild  and  wise. 

And  you,  my  friend,  with  hasty  stride 
Think  you  to  escape  her; 
Ah,   like   fire  touching  paper, 

She  will  burn  into  your  side. 

She  will  rouse  you  once  again; 

She  will  sway  you,  till  you  follow 
[72] 


SPRING   ON   BROADWAY 

Like  the  smallest  singing  swallow 
In  her  train. 

Put  irons  on  your  feet,  my  friend, 

And  chain  your  soul  with  golden  weights, 

Lest  she  should  move  you  in  the  end 

And  lead  you  past  the  city  gates; 

And  make  you  frolic  with  the  wind; 

And  play  a  thousand  godlike  parts; 

And  sing — until  within  you  starts 

A  pity  for  the  senseless  blind, 

The  deaf,  the  dumb  and  all  their  kind 

Whose  eager,  aimless  footsteps  wind 

Forever  to  the  frantic  marts, 

Through  every  mad  and  breathless  street .  . 

My  friend,  put  irons  on  your  feet. 

So — and  that  is  right,  my  friend; 

Do  not  yield. 
Send  her  on  her  way,  and  end 

All  her  follies;  let  her  spend 
[73] 


SPRING  ON   BROADWAY 

Her  reckless  days  and  nights  concealed 
In  wood  and  field 

The  paths  beyond  the  town  are  clear; 
These  skies  are  wan — 
Bid  her  begone. 

What  is  she  doing  here? 

What  is  she  doing  here — and  why? 

The  city  is  no  place  for  Spring. 

What  can  she  have;  what  can  she  bring 

That  you  would  care  to  buy. 
Her  songs?     Alas,  you  do  not  sing. 
Her  smiles?     You  have  no  time  to  try. 
Her  wings?      You   do  not  care  to  fly — 
Spring  has  not  fashioned  anything 

To   tempt  your  jaded   eye. 

The  city  is  no  place  for  her— 
It  is  too  violent  and  shrill; 

Too  full  of  graver  things — but  still 
[74] 


SPRING   ON   BROADWAY 

Beneath  the  throbbing  surge  and  stir, 
Her  spirit  lives  and  moves,  until 

Even  the  dullest  feel  the  spur 
Of  an  awakened  will. 

Make  way  then — Life,   rejoicing, 

Calls,  with  a  lyric  rout, 
Till  in  this  mighty  voicing 

The  very  stones  sing  out; 
Till  nowhere  is  a  single 

Sleeping  or  silent  thing, 
And  worlds  that  meet  and  mingle 

Fairly  tingle  with  the  Spring. 

Make  way  for  Her— 

For  the  fervor  of  Life, 
For  the  passions  that  stir, 

For  the  courage  of  Strife; 
For  the  struggles  that  bring 

A  more  vivid  day — 
Make  way  for  Spring; 
Make  way! 
[75] 


R 


IN  A  CAB 

AIN — and  the  lights  of  the  city, 

Blurred  by  the  mist  on  the  pane. 
A  thing  without  passion  or  pity — 
This  is  the  rain. 


It  beats  on  the  roof  with  derision, 

It  howls  at  the  doors  of  the  cab — 
Phantoms  go  by  in  a  vision, 

Distorted  and  drab. 

Torpor  and  dreariness  greet  me; 

All  of  the  things  I  abhor 
Rise  to  confront  and  defeat  me, 

As  I  ride  to  your  door.  . . 

At  last  you  have  come;  you  have  banished 
The  gloom  of   each  rain-haunted  street — 
The  tawdry  surroundings  have  vanished; 

The  evening  is  sweet. 
[76] 


IN  A  CAB 

Now  the  whole  city  is  dreamlike; 

The  rain  plays  the  lightest  of  tunes; 
The  lamps  through  the  mist  make  it  seem  like 
A  city  of  moons. 

No  longer  my  fancies  run  riot; 

I  hold  the  most  magic  of  charms — 
You  smile  at  me,  warm  and  unquiet, 
Here  in  my  arms. 

I  do  not  wonder  or  witness 

Whether  it  rains  or  is  fair; 
I  only  can  think  of  your  sweetness, 

And  the  scent  of  your  hair. 

I  am  deaf  to  the  clatter  and  drumming, 

And  life  is  a  thing  to  ignore.  .  . 
Alas,  my  beloved,  we  are  coming 

Once  more  to  your  door ! .  .  . 
[77] 


IN  A  CAB 


You  have  gone;  it  is  listless  and  lonely; 

The  evening  is  empty  again; 
The  world  is  a  blank — there  is  only 
The  desolate  rain. 


78] 


SUMMER  NIGHT— BROADWAY 

NIGHT  is  the  city's  disease. 
The  streets  and  the  people  one  sees 
Glow  with  a  light  that  is  strangely 
inhuman ; 

A  fever  that  never  grows  cold. 
Heaven  completes  the  disgrace; 
For  now,  with  her  star-pitted  face, 

Night  has  the  leer  of  a  dissolute  woman, 
Cynical,  moon-scarred  and  old. 

And  I  think  of  the  country  roads; 
Of  the  quiet,  sleeping  abodes, 

Where  every  tree  is  a  silent  brother 

And  the  hearth  is  a  thing  to  cling  to. 
And  I  sicken  and  long  for  it  now — 
To  feel  clean  winds  on  my  brow, 

Where  Night  bends  low,  like  an  all-wise 

mother 

Looking  for  children  to  sing  to. 
[79] 


HAUNTED 

BETWEEN  the  moss  and  stone 
The  lonely  lilies  rise; 
Wasted  and  overgrown 
The  tangled  garden  lies. 
Weeds  climb  about  the  stoop 

And  clutch  the  crumbling  walls; 
The  drowsy  grasses  droop— 
The  night  wind  falls. 

The  place  is  like  a  wood; 

No  sign  is  there  to  tell 
Where  rose  and  iris  stood 

That  once  she  loved  so  well. 
Where  phlox  and  asters  grew, 

A  leafless  thornbush  stands, 
And  shrubs  that  never  knew 

Her  tender  hands.  .  . 

[801 


HAUNTED 

Over  the  broken  fence 

The  moonbeams  trail  their  shrouds; 
Their  tattered  cerements 

Cling  to  the  gauzy  clouds, 
In  ribbons  frayed  and  thin — 

And  startled  by  the  light, 
Silence  shrinks  deeper  in 

The  depths  of  night. 


Useless  lie  spades  and  rakes; 

Rust's  on  the  garden-tools. 
Yet,  where  the  moonlight  makes 

Nebulous  silver  pools, 
A  ghostly  shape  is  cast — 

Something  unseen  has  stirred .  . . 
Was  it  a  breeze  that  passed? 

Was  it  a  bird? 
[81] 


HAUNTED 

Dead  roses  lift  their  heads 

Out  of  a  grassy  tomb; 
From  ruined  pansy-beds 

A  thousand  pansies  bloom, 
The  gate  is  opened  wide — 

The  garden  that  has  been, 
Now  blossoms  like  a  bride . . 

Who  entered  in? 


[82] 


ISADORA  DUNCAN  DANCING 

"IPHIGEN1A  IN  AULIS" 
I 

FLING  the  stones  and  let  them  all 
Lie; 
Take  a  breath,  and  toss  the  ball 

High- 

And  before  it  strikes  the  floor 
Of  the  hoar  and  aged  shore, 
Sweep  them  up,  though  there  should  be 
Even  more  than  two  or  three. 

Add  a  pebble,  then  once  more 
Fling  the  stones  and  let  them  all 

Lie; 
Take  a  breath,  and  toss  the  ball 

High.... 

[83] 


ISADORA  DUNCAN  DANCING 

2 
Rises  now  the  sound  of  ancient  chants 

And  the  circling  figure  moves  more  slowly. 
Thus  the  stately  gods  themselves  must  dance 

While  the  world  grows  rapturous  and  holy. 
Thus  the  gods  might  weave  a  great  Romance 

Singing  to  the  sighs  of  flute  and  psalter; 
Till  the  last  of  all  the  many  chants, 

And  the  priestess  sinks  before  the  altar. 

3 

Cease,  oh  cease  the  murmured  singing; 

Hush  the  numbers  brave  or  blithe, 
For  she  enters  gravely  swinging, 

Lowering  and  lithe — 
Dark  and  vengeful  as  the  ringing 
Scythe  meets  scythe. 

While  the  flame  is  fiercely  sweeping 

All  her  virgin  airs  depart; 
[84] 


ISADORA  DUNCAN  DANCING 

She  is,  without  smiles  and  weeping 

Or  a  maiden's  art, 
Stern  and  savage  as  the  leaping 
Heart  meets  heart! 


4 
Now  the  tune  grows  frantic, 

Now  the  torches  flare — 
Wild  and  corybantic 

Echoes  fill  the  air. 
With  a  sudden  sally 

All  the  voices  shout; 
And  the  Bacchic  rally 

Turns  into  a  rout. 

Here  is  life  that  surges 

Through  each  burning  vein; 
Here  is  joy  that  purges 

Every  creeping  pain. 
[85] 


ISADORA  DUNCAN  DANCING 

Even  sober  Sadness 
Casts  aside  her  pall, 

Till  with  buoyant  madness 
She  must  swoon  and  fall. 


CHOPIN 

FAINT  preludings  on  a  flute 
And  she  swims  before  us; 
Shadows  follow  in  pursuit, 
Like  a  phantom  chorus. 
Sense  and  sound  are  intertwined 

Through  her  necromancy, 
Till  our  dreaming  souls  are  blind 

To  all  things  but  fancy. 
[86] 


ISADORA  DUNCAN  DANCING 

Haunted  woods  and  perfumed  nights, 

Swift  and  soft  desires, 
Roses,  violet-colored  lights, 

And  the  sound  of  lyres, 
Vague  chromatics  on  a  flute  — 

All  are  subtly  blended, 
Till  the  instrument  grows  mute 

And  the  dance  is  ended. 


[87] 


S 


SONGS  AND  THE  POET 

(For  Sara  Teasdale) 

ING  of  the  rose  or  of  the  mire;  sing  strife 
Or  rising  moons;   the  silence  or  the 

throng. .  . 
Poet,  it  matters  not,  if  Life 

Is  in  the  song. 


If  Life  rekindles  it,  and  if  the  rhymes 

Bear  Beauty  as  their  eloquent  refrain, 
Though  it  were  sung  a  thousand  times, 
Sing  it  again! 

Thrill  us  with  song — let  others  preach  or  rage ; 
Make  us  so  thirst  for  Beauty  that  we  cease 
These  struggles,  and  this  strident  age 

Grows  sweet  with  peace. 


88] 


THE  HERETIC 
I. 

BLASPHEMY 

I  DO  not  envy  God — 
There  is  no  thing  in  all  the  skies  or  under 
To  startle  and  awaken  Him  to  wonder; 
No  marvel  can  appear 

To  stir  His  placid  soul  with  terrible  thunder — 
He  was  not  born  with  awe  nor  blessed  with 
fear. 

I  do  not  envy  God — 

He  is  not  burned  with  Spring  and  April  mad 
ness; 
The  rush  of  Life — its  rash,  impetuous  gladness 

He  cannot  hope  to  know. 
He  cannot  feel  the  fever  and  the  sadness 

The  leaping  fire,  the  insupportable  glow. 
[891 


BLASPHEMY 

I  do  not  envy  God — 

Forever  He  must  watch  the  planets  crawling 
To  flaming  goals  where  sun  and  star  are  fall 
ing; 

He  cannot  wander  free. 
For  He  must  face,  through  centuries  appall 
ing, 
A  vast  and  infinite  monotony. 


I  do  not  envy  God — 

He  cannot  die,  He  dare  not  even  slumber. 
Though  He  be  God  and  free  from  care  and 

cumber, 

I  would  not  share  His  place; 
For  He  must  live  when  years  have  lost  their 

number 
And   Time  sinks  crumbling  into  shattered 

Space. 

[90] 


BLASPHEMY 

I  do  not  envy  God — 
Nay  more,  I  pity  Him  His  lonely  heaven; 
I  pity  Him  each  lonely  morn  and  even, 

His  splendid  lonely  throne: 
For  He  must  sit  and  wait  till  all  is  riven 

Alone — through  all  eternity — alone. 


[91] 


II. 

IRONY 

WHY  are  the  things  that  have  no  death 
The    ones    with    neither    sight    nor 

breath. 

Eternity  is  thrust  upon 
A  bit  of  earth,  a  senseless  stone. 
A  grain  of  dust,  a  casual  clod 
Receives  the  greatest  gift  of  God. 
A  pebble  in  the   roadway  lies — 

It  never  dies. 

The  grass  our  fathers  cut  away 
Is  growing  on  their  graves  to-day; 
The  tiniest  brooks  that  scarcely  flow 
Eternally  will  come  and  go. 
There  is  no  kind  of  death  to  kill 
The  sands  that  lie  so  meek  and  still .  .  . 
But  Man  is  great  and  strong  and  wise — 

And  so  he  dies. 
[92] 


III. 

MOCKERY 

GOD,  I  return  to  you  on  April  days 
When  along  country-roads  you  walk 

with  me; 

And  my  faith  blossoms  like  the  earliest  tree 
That  shames  the  bleak  world  with  its  yellow 

sprays. 

My  faith  revives  when,  through  a  rosy  haze, 
The  clover-sprinkled  hills  smile  quietly; 
Young  winds  uplift  a  bird's  clean  ecstacy .  .  . 
For  this,  oh  God,  my  joyousness  and  praise. 

But  now — the  crowded  streets  and  choking  airs, 
The  huddled  thousands  bruised  and  tossed 
about — 

These,   or  the  over-brilliant  thoroughfares, 
The  too-loud  laughter  and  the  empty  shout; 

The  mirth-mad  city,  tragic  with  its  cares.  .  . 
For   this,    oh   God,    my    silence — and   my 

doubt. 

[93] 


IV. 

HUMILITY 

OH  God,  if  I  have  ever  been 
So  filled  with  ignorance  and  sin 
That  I  have  dared  to  use  Thy  name 
In  blasphemy,  in  jest,  in  shame; 
If  ever  I  have  dared  to  flout 
Thy  works,  and  mock  Thy  deeds  with  doubt, 
Thou  must  forgive  me  as  Thou  art  divine 
For,  God,  the  fault  was  Thine  as  well  as  mine. 

Oh,  I  have  used  Thee,  time  on  time, 
To  fill  a  phrase,  to  round  a  rhyme; 
But  was  this  wrong?     Nay,  in  Thy  heart 
Thou  knowest  the  noble  theme  Thou  art. .  . 
Was  it  my  fault  that  as  I  sung 
The  daring  speech  was  on  my  tongue? 
Nay;  if  my  singing,  God,  gave  Thee  offense, 
Thou  wouldst  have  robbed  me  of  the  lyric 
sense. 

[94] 


HUMILITY 

But  dignity  hath  made  Thee  dumb, 
And  so  Thou  biddest  me  to  come 
And  be  a  sonant  part  of  Thee; 
To  sing  Thy  praise  in  blasphemy, 
To  be  the  life  within  the  clod 
That  points  the  paradox  of  God. 
To  chant,  beneath  a  loud  and  lyric  grief, 
A  faith  that  flaunts  its  very  disbelief. 


[95] 


FIFTH    AVENUE— SPRING     AFTER 
NOON 

THE  world's  running  over  with  color, 
With    whispers,    strange    fervors    and 

April— 

There's  a  smell  in  the  air  as  if  meadows 
Were  under  our  feet. 


Spring  smiles  at  the  commonest  waysides; 
But  she  pours  out  her  heart  to  the  city, 
As  one  woman  might  to  another 

Who  meet  after  years.  .  . 


Restless  with  color  and  perfume, 

The  streets  are  a  riot  of  blossoms. 

What  garden  could  boast  of  such  flowers — 

Not  Eden  itself. 
[96] 


FIFTH  AVENUE— SPRING  AFTERNOON 

Primroses,  pinks  and  gardenias, 
Shame  the  gray  town  and  its  squalor — 
Windows   are  flaming  with  jonquils; 
Fires  of  gold! 

Out  of  a  florist's  some  pansies 
Peer  at  the  crowd,  like  the  faces 
Of  solemnly  mischievous  children 
Going  to  bed.  .  . 

And  women — Spring's  favorite  children — 
Frail  and  phantastically  fashioned, 
Pass  like  a  race  of  immortals, 

Too  radiant  for  earth. 

The  pale  and  the  drab  are  transfigured, 
They  sing  themselves  into  the  sunshine — 
Every  girl  is  a  lyric, 

An  urge  and  a  lure. 
[97] 


FIFTH  AVENUE— SPRING  AFTERNOON 

And,  like  a  challenge  of  trumpets, 
The  Spring  and  its  impulse  goes  through  m< 
Breezes  and  flowers  and  people 
Sing  in  my  blood.  .  . 

Breezes  and  flowers  and  people — 
And  under  it  all,  oh  beloved, 
Out  of  the  song  and  the  sunshine, 
Rises  your  face! 


[98] 


TRIBUTE 

NEVER  will  you  let  me 
Tire  of  leaping  passion; 
Never  can  I  grow  weary 
Of  undesired  joys. 

The  delicate  strength  of  your  bosom ; 
Your  hands'  incredible  softness; 
The  fluent  curve  of  your  body; 
The  fierceness  of  your  lips; 

Ceaselessly  do  they  call  me — 
You  and  your  eloquent  beauty 
Are  challenge  and  invitation 
Too  ravishing  to  resist. 

Always  the  burning  summons, 
The  sweet,  imperative  madness, 
Rides  over  me,  like  a  conqueror, 
Careless  and  confident.  .  . 

[99] 


TRIBUTE 


Even  so  goes  Love, 
Trampling  and  invincible; 
With  rapt  and  pitiless  beauty, 
Rough-shod  over  the  world! 


100] 


SONGS  OF  PROTEST 


To  James  Oppenheim 


CHALLENGE 

rE  quiet  and  courageous  night, 
The  keen  vibration  of  the  stars, 
Call  me,  from  morbid  peace,  to  fight 
The  world's  forlorn  and  desperate  "wars. 


The  air  throbs  like  a  rolling  drum — 
The  brave  hills  and  the  singing  sea, 

Unrest  and  people's  faces  come 
Like  battle-trumpets,  rousing  me. 


And  while  Life's  lusty  banner  flies, 
I  shall  assail,   with   raging  mirth, 

The  scornful  and  untroubled  skies, 
The  cold  complacency  of  earth. 


[103] 


CALIBAN  IN  THE  COAL  MINES 


G 


OD,  we  don't  like  to  complain 

We  know  that  the  mine  is  no  lark — 
But — there's  the  pools  from  the  rain; 
But — there's  the  cold  and  the  dark. 


God,  You  don't  know  what  it 
You,  in   Your  well-lighted  sky, 

Watching  the  meteors  whizz; 
Warm,  with  the  sun  always  by. 

God,  if  You  had  but  the  moon 
Stuck  in  Your  cap  for  a  lamp, 

Even  You'd  tire  of  it  soon, 

Down  in  the  dark  and  the  damp. 

Nothing  but  blackness  above, 

And  nothing  that  moves  but  the  cars — 
God,  if  You  wish  for  our  love, 

Fling  us  a  handful  of  stars! 
[104] 


ANY  CITY 

INTO  the  staring  street 
She  goes  on  her  nightly  round, 
With  weary  and  tireless  feet 
Over  the  wretched  ground. 

A  thing  that  man  never  spurns, 
A  thing  that  all  men  despise; 
Into  her  soul  there  burns 
The  street  with  its  pitiless  eyes. 

She  needs  no  charm  or  wile, 
She  carries  no  beauty  or  power, 
But  a  tawdry  and  casual  smile 
For  a  tawdry  and  casual  hour. 

The  street  with  its  ~prtil< 

Follows  wherever  she  lurks, 

But  she  is  hardened  and  wise — 

She  rattles  her  bracelets  and  smirks . . . 
[105] 


ANY  CITY 

She  goes  with  her  sordid  array, 
Luring,  without  a  lure; 
She  is  man's  hunger  and  prey — 
His  lust  arfd  its  hideous  cure. 

All  that  she  knows  are  the  lies, 
The  evil,  the  squalor,  the  scars; 
The  street  with  its  pitiless  eyes, 
The  night  with  its  pitiless  stars. 


[106] 


LANDSCAPES 

(For  Clement  R.    Wood) 

THE  rain  was  over,  and  the  brilliant  air 
Made  every  little  blade  of  grass  appear 
Vivid  and  startling  —  everything  was 

there 

With  sharpened  outlines,  eloquently  clear, 
As  though  one  saw  it  in  a  crystal  sphere. 
The  rusty  sumac  with  its  struggling  spires; 
The  golden- rod  with  all  its  million  fires; 
(A  million  torches  swinging  in  the  wind) 
A  single  poplar,  marvellously  thinned, 
Half  like  a  naked  boy,  half  like  a  sword; 
Clouds,  like  the  haughty  banners  of  the  Lord; 
A  group  of  pansies  with  their  shrewish  faces, 
Little  old  ladies  cackling  over  laces; 
The  quaint,   unhurried    road   that   curved   so 

well; 

The  prim  petunias  with  their  rich,  rank  smell; 
[107] 


LANDSCAPES 

The  lettuce-birds,  the  creepers  in  the  field — 
How  bountifully  were  they  all  revealed! 
How  arrogantly  each  one  seemed  to  thrive — 
So  frank  and  strong,  so  radiantly  alive! 

And  over  all  the  morning-minded  earth 
There  seemed  to  spread  a  sharp  and  kindling 

mirth, 

Piercing  the  stubborn  stones  until  I  saw 
The  toad  face  heaven  without  shame  or  awe, 
The  ant  confront  the  stars,  and  every  weed 
Grow  proud  as  though  it  bore  a  royal  seed ; 
While  all  the  things  that  die  and  decompose 
Sent  forth  their  bloom  as  richly  as  the  rose .  .  . 
Oh,  what  a  liberal    power    that  made  them 

thrive 
And  keep  the  very  dirt  that  died,  alive. 

And  now  I  saw  the  slender  willow-tree 

No  longer  calm  or  drooping  listlessly, 
[108] 


LANDSCAPES 

Letting  its  languid  branches  sway  and  fall 
As  though  it  danced  in  some  sad  ritual; 
But  rather  like  a  young,  athletic  girl, 
Fearless  and  gay,  her  hair  all  out  of  curl, 
And   flying   in   the   wind — her   head   thrown 

back, 

Her  arms  flung  up,  her  garments  flowing  slack, 
And  all  her  rushing  spirits  running  over.  .  . 
What  made  a  sober  tree  seem  such  a  rover — 
Or  made  the  staid  and  stalwart  apple-trees, 
That  stood  for  years  knee-deep  in  velvet  peace, 
Turn  all  their  fruit  to-  little  worlds  of  flame, 
And  burn  the  trembling  orchard  there  below. 
What  lit  the  heart  of  every  golden-glow — 
Oh,  why  was  nothing  weary,  dull  or  tame  ?  .  . 
Beauty  it  was,  and  keen,  compassionate  mirth 
That  drives  the  vast  and  energetic  earth. 

And,  with  abrupt  and  visionary  eyes, 
I  saw  the  huddled  tenements  arise. 
[  109] 


LANDSCAPES 

Here   where    the    merry    clover    danced    and 

shone 

Sprang  agonies  of  iron  and  of  stone; 
There,  where  green  Silence  laughed  or  stood 

enthralled, 

Cheap  music  blared  and  evil  alleys  sprawled. 
The  roaring  avenues,  the  shrieking  mills; 
Brothels  and  prisons  on  those  kindly  hills — 
The  menace  of  these  things  swept  over  me; 
A  threatening,  unconquerable  sea.  .  . 

A  stirring  landscape  and  a  generous  earth! 
Freshening  courage  and  benevolent  mirth — 
And  then  the  city,  like  a  hideous  sore.  .  . 
Good  God,  and  what  is  all  this  beauty  for  P 


110] 


TWO  FUNERALS 
I. 

UPON  a  field  of  shrieking  red 
A  mighty  general  stormed  and  fell. 
They   raised   him   from   the   common 

dead 

And  all  the  people  mourned  him  well. 
"Swiftly,"  they  cried,  "let  honors  come, 
And  Glory    with  her  deathless  bays; 
For  him  let  every  muffled  drum 

And  grieving  bugle  thrill  with  praise. 
Has  he  not  made  the  whole  world  fear 

The  very  lifting  of  his  sword- 
Has  he  not  slain  his  thousands  here 
To  glorify  the  Law  and  Lord! 
Then  make  his  bed  of  sacred  sod; 

To  greater  deeds   no  man  can  win" .  .  . 
And  each  amused  and  ancient  god 

Began  to  grin. 
[ill] 


TWO  FUNERALS 


II. 

Facing  a  cold  and  sneering  sky, 

Cold  as  the  sneering  hearts  of  men, 
A  man  began  to  prophesy, 

To  speak  of  love  and  faith  again. 
Boldly  he  spoke,  and  bravely  dared 

The  savage  jest,  the  kindlier  stone; 
The  armies  mocked  at  him;  he  fared 

To  battle   gaily  —  and  alone. 
Alone  he  fought;  alone,  to  move 

A  world  whose  wars  would  never  cease — 
And  all  his  blows  were  struck  for  love, 

And  all  his  fighting  was  for  peace.  .  . 
They  tortured  him  with  thorns  and  rods, 

They  hanged  him  on  a  frowning  hill — 
And  all  the  olct  and  heartless  gods 

Are  laughing  still. 

[112] 


SUNDAY 

IT  was  Sunday — 
Eleven  in  the  morning;  people  were  at 

church — 
Prayers  were  in  the  making;  God  was  near  at 

hand — 
Down  the  cramped  and  narrow  streets  of  quiet 

Lawrence 
Came  the  tramp  of  workers  marching  in  their 

hundreds ; 
Marching   in   the   morning,   marching  to   the 

grave-yard, 

Where,  no  longer  fiery,  underneath  the  grasses, 
Callous   and   uncaring,   lay   their   friend  and 

sister. 

In  their  hands  they  carried  wreaths  and  droop 
ing  flowers, 

Overhead  their  banners  dipped  and  soared  like 
eagles — 

[113] 


SUNDAY 

Aye,  but  eagles  bleeding,  stained  with  their 

own  heart's-blood — 
Red,  but  not  for  glory — red,  with  wounds  and 

travail, 
Red,  the  buoyant  symbol  of  the  blood  of  all 

the  world.  .  . 
So  they  bore  their  banners,  singing  toward  the 

grave-yard, 
So  they  marched  and  chanted,  mingling  tears 

and  tributes, 
So,  with  flowers,  the  dying  went  to  deck  the 

dead. 

Within  the  churches  people  heard 

The  sound,  and  much  concern  was  theirs — 

God  might  not  hear  the  Sacred  Word — 
God  might  not  hear  their  prayers! 

Should  such  things  be  allowed  these  slaves  — 

To  vex  the  Sabbath  peace  with  Song, 
[114] 


SUNDAY 

To  come  with  chants,  Ufce  marching  waves, 
That  proudly  swept  along.  .  . 

Suppose  Cod  turned  to   these  —  and  heard! 

Suppose  He  listened  unawares  — 
Cod  might  forget  the  Sacred  Word, 

God  might  forget  their  prayers! 

And  so  (oh,  tragic  irony) 

The  blue-clad  Guardians  of  the  Peace 
Were  sent  to  sweep  them  back — to  see 

The  ribald  song  should  cease; 

To  scatter  those  who  came  and  vexed 
God  with  their  troubled  cries  and  cares. 

Quiet — so  God!  might  hear  the  text; 
The  sleek  and  unctuous  prayers! 

Up  the  rapt  and  singing  streets  of  little  Law 
rence, 

[115] 


SUNDAY 

Came  the  stolid  soldiers;  and,  behind  the  blue- 
coats, 

Grinning  and  invisible,  bearing  unseen 
torches, 

Rode  red  hordes  of  anger,  sweeping  all  before 
them. 

Lust  and  Evil  joined  them — Terror  rode 
among  them; 

Fury  fired  its  pistols;  Madness  stabbed  and 
yelled... 

Through  the  wild  and  bleeding  streets  of  shud 
dering  Lawrence, 

Raged  the  heedless  panic,  hour-long  and  bitter. 

Passion  tore  and  trampled ;  men  once  mild  and 
peaceful, 

Fought  with  savage  hatred  in  the  name  of  Law 
and  Order. 

And,  below  the  outcry,  like  the  sea  beneath 

the  breakers, 

[116] 


SUNDAY 

Mingling  with  the  anguish,  rolled  the  solemn 
organ.  .  . 

Eleven    in    the    morning — people    were    at 

church — 
Prayers  were  in  the  making — God  was  near  at 

hand — 
It  was  Sunday! 


[117] 


I 


STRIKERS 

N  the  mud  and  scum  of  things, 

Underneath  the  whole  world's  blot, 
Something,  they  tell  us,  always  sings — 
Why  do  rve  hear  it  not? 


In  the  heart  of  things  unclean, 
Somewhere,  in  the  furious  fight, 

The  face  of  God  is  plainly  seen— 
What  has  destroyed  our  sight? 

Yet  have  we  heard  enough  to  feel, 
Yet  have  we  seen  enough  to  know 

Who  bound  us  to  the  awful  wheel, 
Whose  hands  have  brought   us   low. 

And  we  shall  cry  out  till  the  wind 

Roars  in  their  ears  the  thing  to  come — 

Yea,  though  they  made  us  deaf  and  blind, 
Nothing  shall  £eep  us  dumb! 
[118] 


IN  THE  SUBWAY 

CHAOS  is  tamed  and  ordered  as  we  ride; 
The  rock  is  rent,  the  darkness  flung 

aside 
And  all  the  horrors  of  the  deep  defied. 

A  coil  of  wires,  a  throb,  a  sudden  spark — 
And  on  a  screaming  meteor  we  embark 
That  hurls  us  past  the  cold  and  breathless 
dark. 

The  centuries  disclose  their  secret  graves — 
Riding  in  splendor  through  a  world  of  waves 
The  ancient  elements  become  our  slaves. 

Uncanny  fancies  whisper  to  and  fro; 
Terror  and  Night  surround  us  here  below, 
And  through  the  house  of  Death  we  come 

and  go. .  . 

[119] 


IN  THE  SUBWAY 

And  here,  oh  wildest  glimpse  of  all,  I  see 
The  score  of  men  and  women  facing  me 
Reading  their  papers  calmly,  leisurely. 


[120] 


BATTLE-CRIES 

"V/ES,  Jim  hez  gone — ye  didn't  know? 
I  He's  fightin'  at  the  front. 

It's  him  as  bears  *his  country's  hopes', 
An*  me  as  bears  the  brunt. 

Wen  war  bruk  out  Jim  'lowed  he'd  go — 

He  allus  loved  a  scrap— 
Ye  see,  the  home  warn't  jest  the  place 

Fer  sech  a  lively  chap. 

O'  course,  the  work  seems  ruther  hard; 

The  kids  is  ruther  small — 
It  ain't  that  I  am  sore  at  Jim, 

I  envy  him — that's  all. 

He  doesn't  know  what  he's  about 
An'  cares  still  less,  does  Jim.  .  . 
With  all  his  loose  an'  roarin'  ways 

I  wisht  that  I  was  him. 
[121] 


BATTLE-CRIES 

It  makes  him  glad  an'   drunken-like 

That  music  an'  the  smoke; 
An'  w'en  they  shout,  the  whole  thing  seems 

A  picnic  an'  a  joke. 

Oh,  yellin'  puts  a  heart  in  ye, 

An'   stren'th  into  yer  blows — 
I  wisht  that  I  could  hears  those  cheers 

Washin'  the  neighbors  clo'es.  .  . 

It's  funny  how  some  things  work  out — 
Life  is  so  strange,  Lord  love  us — 

Here  am  I,  workin'  night  an'  day 
To  keep  a  roof  above  us; 

An'  Jim  is  somewhere  in  the  south, 

An'  Jim  ain't  really  bad, 
A-runnin'  round  an'  raisin*  Cain, 

An'  stabbin'  some  kid's  dad. 

[122] 


BATTLE-CRIES 


But  that's  w'at  men  are  made  for — eh? 

Wat  else  is  there  for  me 
But  workin*  on  till  Jim  comes  home, 

Sick  of  his  bloody  spree. 


[123] 


A  VOICE  FROM  THE  SWEAT-SHOPS 

(A  HYMN  WITH  RESPONSES) 

BRAISE  Cod  from  Whom  all  blessings 

JT  flow; 

Praise  Him  all  creatures  here  below. 
Every  morning  mercies  new 
Fall  as  fresh  as  morning  dew." 

Yet  we  are  choked  with  sin 
With  bestial  lusts  and  guile ; 

God  (so  it  runs)  made  this  world  clean 
And  Man  has  made  it  vile. 

Aye,  here  Man  lives  on  man, 
And  breaks  him  day  by  day — 

But  in  the  trampled  jungle 
The  tiger  claws  his  prey. 

God's  curse  is  on  the  thief; 
The  murderer  fares  ill— 
1124] 


A   VOICE   FROM   THE    SWEAT-SHOPS 

Who  gave  the  beasts  their  taste  for  blood 
Who  taught  them  how  to  kill? 

"All  praise  to  Him  Who  built  the  hills, 
All  praise  to  Him  Who  each  stream  fills; 
All  praise  to  Him  Who  lights  each  star 
That  sparkles  in  the  sky  afar.9' 

All  praise  to  Him  who  made 
The  earthquake  and  the  flood; 

All  praise  to  Him  who  made  the  pest 
That  sucks  away  the  blood. 

All  praise  to  Him  whose  mind 

Had  the  desire  to  make 
The  shark,  the  scorpion,  the  gnat 

And  the  envenomed  snake. 

Beauty  itself  He  turns 

To  slay  and  to  be  slain — 
[125] 


A   VOICE   FROM   THE   SWEAT-SHOPS 

A  thousand  evil  poisons 

His  peaceful  woods  contain. 

"Lift  up  your  heart!     Lift  up  your  voice! 
Rejoice!     Again  I  say,  rejoice! 
For  His  mercies,  they  are  sure 
His  compassion  will  endure!" 

Rejoice  because  each  man 

Has  but  a  man's  desire 
To  sin  the  little  human  sins 

As  a  child  that  plays  with  fire. 

Rejoice  because  God's  plans 
Are  far  too  deep  for  talk.  .  . 

He  lets  the  swallow  feed  on  flies — 
Then  gives  it  to  the  hawk! 

Rejoice  because  He  made 

A  world  in  some  wild  mood; 
[126] 


A    VOICE    FROM    THE    SWEAT-SHOPS 

A  world  that  feeds  upon  itself — 
'And  Cod  sarv  it  Was  good.  .  .' 

Yet  who  are  we  to  rail- 
Vainly  we  strive  and  storm — 

God  moves  in  a  mysterious  way 
His  wonders  to  perform! 

'Blind  unbelief  is  sure  to  err,' 
They  say,  and  yet  again, 

'God  is  His  own  interpreter' — 
When  will  He  make  it  plain? 


[127] 


SOLDIERS 

GAY  flags  flying  down  the  street; 
Comes  the  drum's  insistent  beat 
Like  a  fierce,  gigantic  pulse, 
And  the  screaming  fife  exults. 

Soldier,  soldier,  spic  and  span, 
Aren't  you  the  lucky  man; 
Splendid  in  your  gold  and  blue — 
How  the  small  boy  envies  you! 

Oh,  there's  glory  for  you  here — 
Girls  to  smile  and  men  to  cheer; 
Bands  behind  and  bands  before 
Thrilling  with  the  lust  of  War. 

Soldier,  soldier,  proud  as  though 
Marching  to  a  sanguine  foe, 
Bravely  would  you  face  the  brink 
Fired  with  music,  and  with  drink.  .  . 

[128] 


SOLDIERS 

Stalwart  warrior  pass,  and  be 
Glad  you  are  not  such  as  we — 
We,  who,  without  flags  or  drums, 
March  to  battle  in  the  slums. 

Regiments  of  workers — we 
Are  a  foolish  soldiery, 
Combating,  till  we  convert, 
Ignorance,  disease  and  dirt.  .  . 

Soldier,  soldier,  look — and  then 
Laugh  at  us  poor  fighting-men, 
Struggling  on,  though  every  street 
Is  the  scene  of  our  defeat. 

Laugh  at  us,  who,  day  by  day 
Come  back  beaten  from  the  fray; 
We,  who  find  our  work  undone — 

We,  whose  wars  are  never  won. 
[129] 


SOLDIERS 


Corp  flags  flying  down  the  street; 
Comes  the  drum's  insistent  beat 
Like  a  fierce,  gigantic  pulse — 
And  the  screaming  fife  exults! 


[130] 


PEACE 


(The  Fisheries  dispute  having  been  amicably  com 
promised,  the  world  is  at  peace  again. 

....  News  Despatch.) 


AT  Peace9 P   The  world  has  never  been  at 
A\  peace — 

Its   wars   are    never-ending;    there   is 

naught 

In  all  its  battles  like  these  overwrought 
And  storming  hours  with  their  dark  increase. 
The  cities  roar;  in  every  street  one  sees 

Women     and     children,     battle-wounded, 

caught. — 

No    slaves,    no   shattered   hosts   have    ever 
fought 

So   bitterly,   so   hopeless   of   release .  .  . 
[13?] 


PEACE 

Well,  if  it  must  be  war,  take  up  the  sword, 
Facing  the  world  with  grim  and  savage  glee ; 

And,  with  the  courage  of  a  Faith  restored, 
Strike  till  the  darkness  falters,  and  we  see 

That  liberty  is  no  mere  gaudy  word, 
And  peace  no  slothful,  placid  mockery. 


[132] 


THE  DYING  DECADENT 

And  when  the  evening  came  he  fell  asleep, 
And  dreamed  a  dream  of  pallid  loveliness: 

HE  wandered  in  a  forest  dark  and  deep, 
Where  phantoms  passed  him  with  a 

soft  caress; 
Where    shadows   moved    and   ghostly    spirits 

stood 

Sphinxes  of  silence,  wraiths  of  mystery; 
A  magic  wood,  a  strange  and  scented  wood 
Where   roses  sprang  from  every   withered 

tree. 

A  wood  that  woke  his  wonder  and  his  fear, 
A  wood  of  whispered  spells  and  shameful 

lore, 

Beyond  whose  furthest  rim  he  seemed  to  hear 
A  lonely  sea  upon  a  lonelier  shore. 

Visions5  swept  by  him  with  a  chanted  spell, 
[133] 


THE   DYING   DECADENT 

Crouched  at  his  feet  and  murmured  at  his 

side — 
And  like  a  dim  refrain  there  rose  and  fell 

The  restless  minor  of  an  ebbing  tide.  .  . 
Then,  amidst  broken  sighs  and  wafts  of  song, 

Borne  on  the  breezes  blowing  from  the  west, 
He  saw  one  figure  dancing  in  the  throng 

More  wan  and  wonderful  than  all  the  rest. 

The  singing  grew  and  nearer  still  she  came, 

A  being  made  of  rose  and  fire  and  mist; 
Her  deep  eyes  burning  like  the  purple  flame 

Hid  in  the  heart  of  every  amethyst. 
And,  with  the  crooning  of  the  distant  sea, 

She  sang  to  charm  his  soul  and  still  his  fear : 
"Oh,  come,  my  love  that  wanders  wearily; 

Oh,  come,  for  you  have  called,  and  I  am 

here. .  . 
Oh,  I  have  waited  long  to  bring  you  there, 

Beyond  the  border  of  the  things  that  are, 
[134] 


THE  DYING   DECADENT 

Where  all  is  terrible  and  strange  and  fair, 
As    were    your    dreams    that    reached    my 

favorite  star.  .  . 
For  you  shall  live  and  set  the  suns  to  rhyme; 

You  shall  escape  a  mortal's  petty  fate; 
You    shall    behold    the    birth    and    death    of 

Time.  .  . 

Oh  come,  my  love,  for  you  these  wonders 
wait. 

"Moonlight  and  music  and  the  sound  of  waves, 

Sea-spells  incanted  by  a  mermaid-muse, 
And    women's    voices    breathing    slumb'rous 

staves, 
These  shall  you  have  whenever  you  may 

choose. 
And  you  shall  know  the  maidens  of  the  moon, 

Lying  on  lilies  shall  you  see  them  dance ; 
And  you  shall  fling  red  roses  to  the  tune, 

Great  roses  while  the  magic  scene  enchants. 
[135] 


THE   DYING   DECADENT 

Wantons  and  queens  shall  take  your  heart  to 

play 

And  lose  it  in  a  mesh  of  tangled  hair; 
And  you  shall  always  give  your  heart  away, 

And  find  a  new  one  every  hour  there. 
Here  are  the  notes  of  every  nightingale 

Like  rare  pearls  dropping  in  a  golden  pan; 

And  you  shall  hear  white  music  ini  each  dale, 

Sweet  silver  sounds  that  are  not  heard  by 

man. 

And  I  shall  show  you  all  the  world's  delight, 

The  unknown  passion  of  each  flaming  star; 

Your  eyes  shall  be  endowed  with  keener  sight 

Beyond1  the  border  of  the  things  that  are. 
Oh    come,    they    wait    you    on    the    further 

strand — 

Your  drab  and  mournful  mood  they  will 
exchange 

For  joy's  resplendent  purple  in  the  land 
[136J 


THE  DYING   DECADENT 

Where    all    is    rhythmical    and    fair    and 

strange.  .  . 

Oh  come  and  learn  the  songs  unborn,  unsung, 
And  I  shall  give  you  all  your  longing  craves, 
That  you  may  live  in  ecstasy  among 

Moonlight    and    music    and    the   sound   of 
waves." 

Entranced  he  stood — so  exquisite  the  art 
That  charmed  him  he  could  scarcely  whis 
per  low: 

"And  who  are  you  that  comes  to  stir  my  heart 
With   fragments   of   the   songs    I    used    to 

know 

You  speak  of  wild  and  yet  familiar  things, 

Exotic  passions  and  uncanny  bliss; 
A   thousand   dreams  your   voice    recalls    and 

brings ; 
And  who  are  you  that  shows  me  all  of 

this?" 

[137] 


THE   DYING   DECADENT 

"I  am  the  soul  and  spirit  of  your  songs; 

I  am  your  ballad's  grief,  your  lyric's  fire. 
I  am  the  light  for  which  your  yearning  longs; 

Your  curious  rapture  and  your  sick  desire. 
I  am  the  burden  that  your  lays  beseech; 

The  one  refrain  that  flows  through  all  your 

themes. 
I  am  the  eerie  glamor  of  your  speech, 

I  am  the  mystic  radiance  of  your  dreams. 
Come  then  with  me,  where  all  men's  dreams 
are  born, 

Where    winds    shall     lift    your    perfumed 

thoughts  aloft; 
Where  there  is  never  night  or  noon  or  morn, 

Only  a  twilight,  sensuous  and  soft. 
And  you  shall  know  the  wonder  of  each  year, 

The  fiery  secrets  of  a  myriad  Springs.  .  . 
Lying  on  lilies  shall  you  see  them  here ; 

And    you    shall    live   and    touch    immortal 

things." 

[138] 


THE   DYING   DECADENT 

She  paused  and  sighed.     Slowly  he  shook  his 

head 

As  one  who  sees  a  guarded  flame  go  out; 
"Never  to  die?     Nay  that  alone,"  he  said, 
"Were  worse   than   all  this   wandering  in 

doubt. 

Nor  would  I  go  if  Death  himself  should  come 
To   crown    Life's   blessing   with   a    greater 

gift; 

In  such  a  perfect  world  I  would  be  dumb — 
What  could  I   long  for  when  my  fancies 

drift?.  .. 
And  more  than  this,  I  do  not  choose  to  go; 

For  I  am  sick  of  strange  and  subtle  sounds, 
Of  fevered  phrases,  tinted  words  that  glow, 

And  all  the  twisting  art  that  but  astounds. 
I  do  not  long  for  tortured  harmonies; 

No  more  my    languid    soul  is  racked  and 

tossed 

[139] 


THE  DYING   DECADENT 

With  yearning  for  strange  shores  and  stranger 
seas — 

I  seek  the  visions  I  have  long  since  lost. 
I  seek  the  ways  of  simple  love  and  hate, 

Once  more  I  long  to  join  the  virile  race; 
For  I  was  blind  till  now,  and  now  too  late 

I  see  the  wonder  of  the  commonplace. 

"I  long  to  hear  men's  voices,  coarse  and  wild, 

That  never  knew  a  poet's  wan  desire; 
I  long  to  hear  them,  as  a  little  child 

Listens  to  elders  grouped  about  the  fire .  .  . 
To  hear  them  as  they  mingle  grave  and  gay — 

The  prudent  planning   for  the  week,  and 

then 
Amid  the  tritest  gossip  of  the  day, 

Quaint,  petty  talk  of  merchandise  and  men. 
I  crave  the  usual  and  homely  themes; 

The     everyday     of     which     no     mermaid 

sings .... 

[140] 


THE  DYING   DECADENT 

These  are  the  fairest  fragments  of  my  dreams; 
These    are    the    conquering    and    deathless 
things." 

He    ceased;    a    sudden    radiance    round    him 

shone, 

And  all  things  melted  like  a  phantom  wrack. 
And  as  he  swept  his  hands  and  stood  alone 
He   heard  hoarse  thunders   and   the  dusk 

grew  black. 
Vast  tremors  shook  the  world  from  side  to 

side — 

The   earth   and   sky   became   a   monstrous 
blot.  .  . 

And  then  it  seems  he  t»ofye,  and  waging,  died; 
Calling  on  things  that  he  had  long  forgot. 


[141] 


W 


FUNERAL  HYMN 

HEN  Life's  gay  courage  fails  at  last, 

And  I  grow  worse  than  old — 
Though   Death   puts   out   my  fiery 

heart, 
I  never  shall  grow  cold. 

For  warm  is  earth's  green  covering, 

And  warmly  I  shall  lie, 
Wrapped  in  the  winding-sheets  of  air 

And  the  great,  blue  folds  of  sky! 


[142] 


PROTESTS 

(After  c  Painting  by  Hugo  Balliri) 

SOMETHING    impelled    her    from    the 
hearth ; 

Whispers  and  winds  drew  her  along; 
But  still,  unconscious  of  the  earth, 
She  read  her  book  of  golden  Song. 

Old  legends  stirred  her  as  she  read 

Of  life  victoriously  unfurled, 
Of  glories  gone  but  never  dead, 

And  Beauty  that  redeemed  the  world. 

"Oh  Songs,"    she  sighed,    "your  world  was 
fair; 

My  own  holds  no  such  lovely  things; 
No  glow,  no  magic  anywhere — " 

And  then,  a  start — a  flash  of  wings.  .  . 

[143] 


PROTESTS 


And,  with  the  rush  of  surging  seas, 
Over  her  swept  the  world's  replies: 

The  lyric  hills,  the  buoyant  breeze 
And  all  the  sudden  singing  skies! 


[144] 


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UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


